


Untitled Bibliography - For Alistair

by carmabis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair and Varric are friends, Angst and Tragedy, Canon Rewrite, Character Death, Coming of Age, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Survivor Guilt, Varric Tethras Writes, disgusting amount of em dashes used
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:01:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25720267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmabis/pseuds/carmabis
Summary: I write of Myriani Mahariel, the First to Keeper Marethari of Clan Sabrae. Accompanied by her hunter of a twin, their warrior of a clanmate, and the insatiable curiosity the trio held that could only be attributed to their innocence and naivety, her story starts here: on a search for chaga mushrooms and locations of abundant elfroot. This is when destiny chose a specific butterfly to beat its wings in the Anderfels, causing a herd of druffalo to—well, you know how the saying goes. You knew how her fate was tied to something larger than life—to that butterfly's beating wings. You knew everything.Well, almost everything, and that's why I'm here. With months of research, I've organized her story with all the dynamic, confusing, and tragic events that befell Myriani Mahariel once destiny had placed it’s mark on her.I’m still not too sure how her story ends, though—but I'm running out of time. All I need is just a little more time.V. Tethras
Relationships: Alistair/Female Mahariel (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 3





	1. Preface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, Zuko here.
> 
> I haven't touched fanfic writing with a 10 foot pole since I was 14 but A Series of Unfortunate Events dragged me right back into passion writing and so that's what this is. Varric's monologue for me is a mix of his own roguish charm and Patrick Warburton's soothing narration, but please feel free to read it however you wish.
> 
> I'm posting this to test the waters as I'm unsure how this kind of telling of Dragon Age: Origins will be received, but I spent about 10 hours straight working on what I have so far and wanted to share. Please feel free to comment and let me know your thoughts~
> 
> Also, fair warning, I will be using a real unnecessary amount of the Elvhen language for anywhere applicable—specifically by learning more English through Project Elvhen made by FenxShiral than I ever did in any language arts class. This is why normally, what would be italicized, is bolded. Beacuse there is so much Elvhen that it didn't make sense to use italics for both.
> 
> No beta unless you count endless editing for hours—see you on the other side.

* * *

*The preface is littered with ink blotches and teardrop stains, the pages are a faded yellow compared to the rest of the book, the handwriting looks erratic in some areas; letters written as though the author could not control their pen hand during some instances of writing, and, as if a first draft, sometimes whole sentences are crossed out and rewritten. Whoever wrote this was undoubtedly mentally distressed.*

* * *

_-I’m still not too sure how the story should end—I just need more time._

* * *

What I **am** sure of is that two paths of science and faith were laid before us all when that butterfly took flight. Science states that an object cannot move unless an outside force acts upon it and it cannot stop until another outside force reacts. But, in the context of **destiny** ; of ashes belonging to a long-dead prophet guiding a man on death’s doorstep gently back to full health; of Elvhen pantheon members walking amongst mortals; of old Gods rising from the depths of Thedas as Archdemons to sow chaos and blight among the surface; of a being more powerful than any of us—a being that could be considered the **very same** outside force that would urge that butterfly to beat its wings, scaring the druffalo herd, turning it into a stampede, making a dust storm, changing air pressure levels, causing a cold front sooner than Clan Sabrae expected, forcing the Dalish clan to pack up early for their next migration—answering his own questioning of fate with, and I quote, ‘ _banal nadas_ ’? We lowly beings, cursed with the ability to choose our questions and worse off to choose our answers, are left to ponder what truly is in—or out—of our control. ‘Nothing is inevitable’ Fen’Harel says, yet that butterfly had to have beat its wings for a reason—for a story to begin. Something or someone started the effect. ~~Someone had to~~ No, not ‘someone’.

Myriani Mahariel had to save the world.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “Why, Varric Tethras, is our protagonist looking for chaga mushrooms? I don’t even know what these chaga mushrooms are because I rarely look for opportunities to expand my knowledge in topics I never thought would be useful until now! Please tell me, oh, great Tethras, for I will never understand the context of this story otherwise.” Let me explain; chaga mushrooms are incredibly ugly. They’re so ugly that one might wonder why, exactly, this specific fungi was ever experimented with for cooking in the first place with its charcoal-like texture, unnaturally turmeric-colored inner-mycelium, hardy biology that allows it to thrive on birch trees in colder climates, and a too-long life cycle. As captivating as I can make these facts sound, they were not what interested Myriani Mahariel about chaga mushrooms. What interested her was that when dried, this fungi can be ground into a powder using a mortar and pestle, then mixed into not-quite boiling water to create what she affectionately—but not inaccurately—named ‘ _chaga’liman_ ’. To top it off, her tea would be flavored simply with honey and fresh picked ginger. 

This mysterious tea was a passion of mine throughout my studies of the curious elf and it pains me to think about how I may never have the chance to try this fabled creation—because if _chaga’liman_ wasn’t made exactly how Mahariel made the fungal tea during her time in Clan Sabrae and as a Grey Warden, which constituted the tea having an indescribable flavor as if the goddess Sylaise or the prophet Andraste were blessing each cup of _chaga’liman_ themselves, then it wasn’t _chaga’limon_ . Unfortunately, attempts at this drink that ended up not being actual _chaga’limon_ were always the end result of batches produced by anyone other than Myriani Mahariel herself. 

When former clanmates or those lucky enough to have witnessed Mahariel make it herself in the flesh try to recreate her delicacy, their chaga-water tastes suspiciously like halla droppings and rotten leaves. I regret to admit that this objective opinion is based on personal experience, and not a third-party anecdote.

Few outwardly questioned this recurring phenomena as I preformed my research, but their never-ending persistence in trying to dispute the indisputable fact that chaga-water cannot taste like anything other than absolute shit **repeatedly** is not surprising, just like how it wasn’t surprising when they were also hasty to follow every failed recreation attempt with ‘Myriani Mahariel’s pedestal is too high’ for them to ever reach—the phrase ‘to put someone on a pedestal’ means ‘to admire someone so much that you believe they have no faults’ and by using this phrase, I’m attempting to call out their sorry excuse of the Hero’s position on her “too high” pedestal (that they themselves sat her atop of, no less!) to explain their failure and lack of critical thinking. It's founded on nothing but the unrealistic belief that the Hero is flawless, nothing more. They ponder obsessively over the unanswerable question of “Why is no one good enough to replicate _chaga’limon_ ?” because it allows them to avoid the answer none of them want to believe: _chaga’limon_ is impossible to recreate because Mahariel infused her brews of _changa’limon_ with her very own mana essence. This gave the tea it’s previously described holy-like flavor and it means there was little to no skill involved in the first place for her creation—in other words, she had lived a **lie**. 

Albeit a very inconsequential white lie about a party trick for some tea, so that’s not my point. The terrifying conclusion from this psychoanalytical rant—a topic too close too home that I should not be speaking on it—born from a tea made out of mushrooms is my point. The simple potential of an absolute truth redefines the possible as impossible and the flawless as flawed and when we are faced with the possibility of absolutes that refuse to conform to the truth we want, we can easily— and usually prefer to—avoid any possible cognitive dissonance by simply...ignoring the possibility of those absolutes and living comfortably, believing our truth is unchallenged.

This is one of the few places where the innate habit shared by every intelligent species to search for answers where they cannot be found solely because they don’t want to find them rears its ugly head. Here, the phrase ‘rears its ugly head’ means ‘to cause problems for someone or something’ and by using it, I’m implying that the ‘cause’ is us trapping ourselves in a twisted web of what we want the truth to be while the ‘problem’ is ignoring what the truth most likely is. ~~and the ‘someone’ is~~

I’m left to ponder where Myriani Mahariel has gone as I write this preface because I, Varric Tethras, Dwarven merchant prince, head of one of the most intricate spy networks to exist, best-selling author multiple years in a row, and bard extraordinaire, believe that I am not skilled enough to find a simple Grey Warden who I probably now know better than her fellow Grey Warden, the very same one who stole her heart, does. She has been besting me at every turn and clearly does not want to be found. 

...I’m a natural born liar, yet these words scratch at my conscious the more I reread them; too blatantly far from reality for them to settle, but with them written down, the possible is still possible and I am still a flawless detective who hasn’t failed to find his mark. Even with all the evidence that Myriani Mahariel, former First to Keeper Marethari of Clan Sabrae, Champion of Redcliffe, Warden-Commander and Hero of Ferelden, a friend of friends, has ended up in the exact same place as Bertrand...and Bethany...Anders, Iron Bull—Ha **wke** —

~~I think~~ Out of all the shitty, **shitty** hands I’ve been dealt in my life, I think I’m going to stand on this one—on having the distinct pleasure of informing the last good man I know that his soulmate is gone—completely gone. Just for a little longer. I’ll write the story I’ve uncovered of her journey in full—a story founded upon official and off-market written records, an author’s creative expression, and glowing personal accounts that arguably prove that Myriani Mahariel ~~was i **s**~~ **was** the bravest woman I will never meet—before I’ll bring the end to paper. I want to give him a little more time to live with ignorance—to live with hope. Maker knows what I would’ve given up ~~to have that time with Hawke.~~ for just a chance at having that opportunity.

When my deadline arrives, at least I’ll have a good parting gift for Alistair’s closure that he’s definitely going to need. I’ll even sign the front cover for him. He’ll love it.

I should have written this at the start: I have no reason to believe this story will have a happy ending and I have no reason to lie that it will not affect my tone of approach while writing this biography. I urge you to put this down and read something that will leave you feeling warm and cozy before you head to bed—for those of us that have forgotten what it feels like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did Varric sound like a hot mess? I hope so, not just because I'm a shit writer, completely not why I'm asking.
> 
> Also, he has so many goddamn tags, I wasn't expecting that. Ya'll love him here and that's completely valid.
> 
> Hope ya'll enjoyed.


	2. The Tablet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys, here's this monstrosity. I want to reiterate just how much English I am learning by writing this. Was anyone going to tell me what participles were, or was I supposed to find out by spend hours making sentences in a useless language? Auxiliary verbs? Literally never heard of them.
> 
> There is a lot of Elvhen. I urge readers to try their best with context clues (not that my context clues are the best, mind you) until you rely on part two of this chapter in the end notes. This took a crazy amount of time, and I hope you all try to criticize my sentence creation because its impossible. Queue: "This doesn't sound right but I don't know enough about fantasy bilingual characters to dispute it."
> 
> I sincerely hope you all enjoy. I know I enjoy writing a fanfic that is 50% illegible.

* * *

*A note is hastily scrawled at the top of the paper, wrapping around the chapter display:

"There is a saying the Dalish use: ' _ Nuva tarasyldhe re uth’su mar’veth _ ,' for encouragement and well-wishes; ‘May the wind be ever at your back.’ Unless you are encouraged to investigate a long-abandoned ruin at the price of your life. At that time, it may be appropriate to take this saying maliciously, or as a wish of bad luck.

No one was there to wish them either implication."

The writing steadily becomes smaller as the author continuously realized they were running out of more and more space.*

* * *

_-I urge you to put this down and read something that will leave you feeling warm and cozy before you head to bed—for those of us that have forgotten what it feels like._

* * *

Out of all the things that can be questioned about Myriani Mahariel’s life, why she felt so compelled to leave the camp on that horrific, traumatizing day to explore the Brecilian forest isn’t one of them.

The Brecilian forest is located on the south-eastern edge of a country commonly referred to as Ferelden. The Brecilian forest is known throughout Ferelden for its mystically haunted woods and suspiciously creepy ruins. Myriani Mahariel, creator of _chaga’limon_ , knew the Brecilian forest for its cold winters and plentiful birch trees. Clan Sabrae had been planning to travel to the Brecilian forest for months and Myriani Mahariel was anxiously daydreaming about her first available opportunity to replenish her stock of chaga in what felt like _bell’ana_ —a point in time the Dalish call ‘forever’. 

As the ara'vel she shared with Keeper Marethari rolled into their new camp site, anticipation had the young elf vibrating as she made intermittent halla eyes at her Keeper; an incessant reminder that the question that hung between mentor and student would be answered soon. 

The ara'vel stopped in a long glade, trees arching overhead around the perimeter to grace shadows over the clan, protecting them from the midday sun, with white and yellow primrose dotted around tall lengths of bluebell tickling the roots. Northern lady ferns sprouted along the campsite, almost giving way to the paths traversed by Dalish clans for generations—almost. The bushes shook with escaping animals that were too fast for Myriani to catch sight of. 

Others pulled in, all led by white halla, and rooted themselves along the edges of the clearing. By sundown, every ara'vel would be unpacked and the glade will appear as though the Sabrae Clan had been there for ages—as they have.

Myriani Mahariel quickly got to unloading her fair share of supplies which, granted, wasn’t much. She traveled light, and most large items would be taken care of by other clanmates. She saw the elders far along in their process of unpacking; Paivel had already circled rocks around a pit for his distinctive, large _isethan_ —a fireplace—allowed to him on the basis of his story-telling. It’s good motivation for clan members to join him when he has the largest fire, especially as the nights get colder. Ilen’s voice could already be heard booming at his apprentices who were not being careful enough with the crafter’s supplies.

The young elf saw her moment as the Keeper took a deep breath and seemed to relax against their ara'vel—her act was not of exhaustion finally being expressed, but of a large burden being lifted. Clan Sabrae had settled.

The stress of having to pick up and move her entire clan early was enough to sprout more than a few grey hairs in addition to her white ones, but who could have predicted that the cold front from further south would have approached so early? When Keeper Marethari noticed frost on the elfroot storage one morning that refused to thaw even with the weather holding true to what was expected for the beginning of _souver'melana_ —autumn for the Dalish—, she knew it was time. The elder, with all her years, had learned to not question "why" when the answer could not change the lesson to be learned. Traveling along the border to the Kokari wilds was safe from humans and strife, but nature took up the role of the unpredictable quite often and settling further north early, while inconvenient, would be safer in the long run.

Myriani used her well-practiced and endearing—though some might describe it as “childish”—persuasion tactic: a promise of privilege (“The first cup from the first batch of _chaga’liman_ , I swear!”). Keeper Marethari opened her eyes slowly and looked down at her charge.

 _Would Myriani be happy to know how similar her twin and her were to their parents?_ The elder pondered. The Mahariel twins were a constant reminder of Marethari's two friends of past: their fathers deep tan and straw like hair, never settling on one shade, and their mother's shorter-than-usual, even for elves, stature, lithe limbs, and pale eyes. The Keeper studied the deep plum _vallaslin_ on her First's face, the vein-like branches tracing the top of her cheeks to bloom at her temples and was brought back to their coming of age ceremony. It was larger than expected for most ceremonies of the nature, and there were unexpected but not unwelcome guests within the crowd.

There was surprising flip of personality between the two young _da'lan_ that day; the usually brave and rock-like demeanor of Inaean Mahariel was nowhere to be found as she almost hid behind her twin, but Myriani...Myriani Mahariel had a look in her eye—a look that would have brought the Creators to their knees if they had been watching.—

* * *

It is a personal opinion on whether it is a blessing to a curse to be a focus of powerful beings, too large to comprehend. Luckily, those powerful beings don't give two nugshits about our opinions. Or...unluckily? We forget, occasionally, that we can refuse to drink the poison.

* * *

—Keeper Marethari knew since their naming what both twins would pick. There was no wondering when destiny. Myriani declared the mark she would bear with no hesitation as she gripped Inaean's hand tightly, her sister following shortly after. As if death was hunting the elves, they were silent while the Keeper applied the tattoos.

The plum-colored writing only accentuated their features, and Keeper Marethari was glad the hunter of the two had already found her pair in such a secure warrior. Myriani, on the other hand, had interests of more importance and the Keeper was not looking forward to taking the girl to the next _Arlathvhen_. Mythal guide the Keeper, she would hold do her best to hold until Myriani was ready.

Keeper Marethari took in a sudden breath as she came back from her memories, remembering Myriani's intent—hopefully she looked in thought, a little waver of confidence in the young _da'len_ would do her good. The longer the Keeper held her gaze on the small elf asking for her boon, the more she wondered just how far her First’s eyes would widen.—this was not the direct reason since anyone who has seen an elf in the flesh would know that there is no measurable windening of their eyes as they are already incredibly, almost magically, round...and very wide. What the Keeper was actually waiting for was nothing, she was simply teasing her younger charge and wanted her to keep her in suspense.—She squinted her eyes as if considering denial and a whine escaped the First.

The pale lilac of Myriani’s irises gave way to golden flecks; a ray of sun had bushed over the two through the canopy of leaves and Keeper Marethari granted her ("Plus an escort! It is too dangerous to go alone.") permission to explore the perimeter of the establishing camp. Though not to look as though her First could walk over her with only a simple cup of tea, the Keeper added a stipulation. Myriani was to prioritize searching for locations of elfroot and edible floral to record for later gathering, “The necessities of the clan are an utmost priority—you must learn this before you are to take my place,” but the young First was already squealing in excitement as she bounded away to gather her companions. Knowing the girl, Marethari guessed Myriani would have done this anyways; the Mahariel's always had a knack for putting others ahead of themselves, same with that warrior, Tamlen.

If Myriani had looked back, she wouldn't have missed her last opportunity of seeing a genuine smile gracing her teacher's face.—

* * *

It is hard for us to imagine the pain one experiences when they have missed an opportunity such as this one; when one looks back on their memories as through they were a book being written, consistently editable and never done, and seeing the one sentence that could have been the butterfly beating its wings.

Myriani Mahariel would look back and think about how happy Keeper Marethari looked after she walked up and begged for her outing. For a long time, she blamed her Keeper for letting her leave when there were more camp activities that could have been done. She blamed her for not having a stronger _lavin’veth_ , the Dalish word for spine or figuratively implying strong-willed and determined. She blamed her for not calling her back, so she could have seen how happy her Keeper actually was rather than turning it into another lesson. She blamed herself for asking to leave. Most importantly, she blamed herself for not being able to remember her adopted mother's smile.

* * *

—The companions of Inaean and Tamlen’s ara'vel were none too happy about their helping hands being taken from the tedious unpacking, but they, too, were also easily convinced with stakes to the first batch of tea.

All three set off after the two more physically graced elves donned their weapons of choice with Myriani only needing her gnarled staff wrapped in cloth (“I was getting splinters…”) and stained wooden beads (“It’s for personality!”). The whines of _da’lin_ could be heard as they watched the small patrol head out of camp bounds and were met with hushing and toys—one specific favorite was a stick with string tied between it and a small wooden ring. 

Myriani quickly noticed a patch of wild blueberries not far from their camp entrance—their bright blue speckles standing out against the deep green foliage. She plucked one and popped it into her mouth, determining that the berries were just shy of being fully ripe but still edible. The three snacked to their fill before they started again. 

Myriani was glad to have accomplished part of her obligatory task this soon and fortunately, it only took about twenty minutes of wandering until Inaean pointed out some mushrooms that were growing on the outskirt birch trees of a clearing below them. Tamlen and Myriani were nimble as they made their way down the rooted slope while Inaean decided on a more unconventional approach of sliding down a relatively smooth strip of dirt and rocks. With a slight trip but successful recovery, she achieved dramatic ‘oooo’s from her sister and her _lath’in_ —literally meaning ‘heart’ but poetically, as most Elvhen phrases should be taken, meaning her love. Both clapped in exaggerated awe and Inaean gave a bow.

Upon closer inspection of the thin, white-barked trees, Myriani was able to confirm Inaean’s claim along with an added blessing; beside the birch were sweetgum. The young _erelan_ —

* * *

This term for ’mage’ is informally used by the Dalish. Long ago, the word meant ‘dreamer’ in Elvhen and was reserved only for the top of the top mages. For Myriani Mahariel, it is an accurate description in all cases.

* * *

—passionately described how the _lin’adahl_ —‘sap’—is a treatment for coughs and fungal infections of the skin, “- _on-ala_ _sul ladara_ ’ _ghi’myelan_ _emal_ _mes’shos,_ ” she added with a not-so whisper to her sister, with a not-so subtle glance at the second escort. 

Tamlen’s cheeks flushed when he brought his right foot back defensively, “ _Fenedhis-”_ he sent an accusatory look towards Inaean and hissed, “ _Ma_ **_dirthem_** _’ash_? When I specifically requested _ma_ **_te_** tell’ _ash_!?” 

Inaean opted to let out a whistle and avoid eye contact. 

“Leaves and seeds _e_ _lvyremah’eir’melana’s_ cough. _I amal_ ’ _i_ _sh’ala,_ _e_ _lvyran’var ebalathe,_ ” Myriani finished, ready to get started and already plucking a few low-hanging leaves from the sweetgum branches. 

“ _Avaan’lan,_ ” Inaean teased, poking at her sister’s convoluted sentences and side.

“Ah, _ir abelas_. They treat _eir’melana’s_ cough. I am taking some,” the Keeper-in-training corrected while batting her sisters hand away with a laugh. She knew had a habit of playing with the words of her people, but also had a habit of forgetting that her extensive training wasn't common within the clan itself.

“ _Vanadirth,_ do not _"I_ _r abelas”’ash_ -” 

-This is how Tamlen started his rant of expressing his importance on trust between partners while Inaean pretended to be more interested in the foliage her sister was giving examples of, participating with only a hum and noncommittal shrug of her shoulders towards the male. The warrior eventually let out an exasperated sigh—specifically in the form of “ _Dahn’direlan_!” or ‘bee-puncher’, if one had well-enough hearing to catch—and threw his hands in the air, walking off to start securing the site of the First’s harvesting. Inaean snickered as she quickly skipped to follow. 

During their lovers quarrel, Myriani had taken out a small knife and started making careful work of shedding the birch of its chaga mushrooms into her herb bag. Her foraging was careful and precise, careful not to damage the tree or over-harvest and halt new growth. Once satisfied with a full bag, she focused back on the sweetgum. Lithely, small empty vials were grabbed from her waist-pouch and with a quick stab, she had the tree leaking sap into the containers. After three had been filled, a quick enchantment of ice was cast and the vials were put back into place.

Myriani Mahariel, as First to Keeper Marethari of Clan Sabrae, focused mainly on druidic form of magic. in return, her elemental skills were basic at best with ice bruises and sterilize tools as part of her healing lessons taught her; she knew small spells like that could be applied elsewhere, but never wanted to explore further. At a younger age, Myriani was in a thunderstorm with her sister when she learned how to control lightening. The spike of energy she felt in herself and as controlled the purest form of it was exhilarating. The Keeper stressed how dangerous that form of magic could be, so the young mage only practiced during storms and under supervision. Myriani was a practical mage, not a fighter.

She held her hand over her eyes as she studied the sky; the sun had moved somewhere between slightly and a bit, so Myriani guessed that maybe thirty minutes had passed.

“ _Asa’ma’lan, my unethan’ma!!~_ ” Inaean chimed from somewhere in the undergrowth, declaring her completed job of keeping the younger twin safe during her foraging. Her ears twitched before she looked towards the patch of foliage where her sister's voice had come from. Not more than a few seconds later, Inaean emerged wearing confident smile and holding a stone tablet. Tamlen emerged close behind, clearly amused.

“ _Ethan’em_ _o_...?” Myriani questioned as she stood and brushed the dirt and foliage off her standard Keeper garb. The two hunters fully entered the clearing and the mage focused in on the stone as the hunters walked closer. She felt more than heard a humming from the tablet, like vibrations from within. _Curious, but not surprising_ , she thought, _It is the Brecilian forest. Secrets will take one as far as a raven’s wings will fly._

“Bah, _shem'len i_ _assanen_ _o_ _lavin’veth_. _Emas_ your _urb’alas_?” Her twin brushed off her intrigue, clearly deciding the humans weren't worth her sister's time to describe. She was more interested in looking over the tree Myriani was near, seeing the remnants of the mushroom was previously attached to it.

Tamlen became impatient as Inaean made small talk with Myriani, rocking back and forth on his feet as the budding herbalist went into fine detail about how she was going to prepare her _chaga'limon_. “ _Falon,_ my joy grows as you chat, _y var shivan lahn’em’an,_ ” he pressed for their attention, nodding towards the stone tablet in Inaean’s hand.

“Ah,” Inaean states, as if she had forgotten about what was in her possession, “can you read the markings, Myri? _Es’an_ El'vhen.” 

The First reached for the tablet from her sisters hands, the humming growing and growing until suddenly it disappeared once she made contact. She ran her fingers over the engraved surface, enthralled with the mystery. The markings were ancient Elvhen as her sister had described, but were unreadable with her level of knowledge. The tablet whispered with unknown words and tickled her fingertips, the sound becoming louder and tickling becoming sharper as longer she held on to the stone. _That’s...something._ With a blooming fear of not wanting to understand the words it spoke, she quickly handed it back to her sister; she chose to attribute her sudden relinquishing of the stone with being bothered by how much it weighed, which wasn't false.—

* * *

’Dramatic irony’ is a term used to describe when the audience knows something the characters do not and ‘situational irony’ is when events or situations become ironic. When Myriani wishes to pass off the tablet due to its physical weight, we know that Myriani Mahariel will soon have a much, **much** larger responsibility—or weight—to bear that, unfortunately, she would not be able put down.

* * *

—“I cannot _. Elosan_ _elgar_ ’ _ra,_ though. It carries a weakened Veil; _revas’lah_ —spirits speak from it-” the mage started.

“Oooo, _gealne~_ ,” the warrior interjected.

“- _S_ _hem’len_ carried this on them?” the mage finished. 

“ _Vin_ —said they grabbed it from _mith’bre’alas_ ,” a mischievous glint flashed in Inaean’s eyes when she spoke, looking at her sister, and she was met with growing realization in her mirror, “We must investigate! **_Elgar_** _’ra_ , ya? Magic **and** Elvhen!”

“ _Mala_? _Salhasine’na,_ _ryir_ _sul’ema_ ’ _ra_ Keeper! That is what ‘we must’ do,” Myriani lunged for the tablet now that she fully understood sister's intentions. The tablet was too weird for them to find its previous resting place by themselves, but her twin had predicted her course of action and handed it to the tallest member of their group; he held it high above the shorter dirty-blondes.

“ _Silan's_ _hem’len_ _ea nual’var_ _uren_ , I don’t want to waste the Keeper’s time,” Tamlen added, looking towards the forest. _He's looking towards_ _the ruins,_ Myriani concluded. Her gaze flicked between the two rapidly as she realized they had discussed this before they even came back to her, and their decision had been made. Her shoulders fell with defeat as a silence became of the trio—all they were waiting for was her to agree. It was almost tangible.

Myriani sighed, “ _D_ _yir_?” she motioned with her hand for the two hunters to lead the way.

“ _U_ _th’sule’din,_ ” they responded in unison, taking off after sharing a grin. Even with butterflies in her stomach, the familiarity of her friends' contagious excitement comforted the mage; Myriani grew a small smile as she followed.—

* * *

I found that this was a common figurative exchange between this trio. Dramatic and morbid, most definitely, but never declared in actual seriousness. It was meant as a devotion of their support for each other, nothing more or less.

If only they could have known that this was the first time it wouldn't be figurative.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll ready? edit: oh shit italics don't transfer. Notes needing to look pretty said "WHO?"
> 
> “-on-ala sul ladara’ghi’myelan emal mes’shos”: “-great for treating hunters with trench foot”
> 
> Fenedhis: standard cuss word
> 
> “Ma dirthem’ash? When I specifically requested ma te tell’ash!?”: “You told her? When I specifically requested you to not tell her!?”
> 
> “Leaves and seeds elvyremah’eir’melana’s cough. I amal’ish’ala, elvyran’var ebalathe.”: “Leaves and seeds soften winter’s cough. By taking them, I soften our mourning.” Boy, was that a fucking doozy to write; I rewrote it 3 times with 3 different verb conjugations just to realize I was right the first time. I'm not crying.
> 
> Avaan’lan: A person who speaks with long words. With Elvhen’s sentence structure, this implies an intellectual show-off; a teasing remark.
> 
> “Vanadirth, te “ir abelas”’ash-”: Vanadirth specifically means ‘silly talk’. In this context, it implies “Nonsense, don’t ‘I’m sorry’ her-”.
> 
> “Asa’ma’lan, my unethan’ma!~ ”: “Sister, I have saved you!~”
> 
> “Ethan’em o...?”: “Saved me from…?”
> 
> “Bah, shem'len i assanen o veth’lavin. Emas your alas’urb?”: “Bah, humans with more arrows than spine. You have your mushrooms?"
> 
> “Falon, my joy grows as you chat, y var shivan lahn’em’an.”: “Friends, my joy grows as you chat, but our duty calls us,”
> 
> “Es’an ea Elvhen.”: “They are Elvhen.”
> 
> “I cannot. Elosan elgar’ra, though. It carries a weakened veil; revas’lah—spirits speak from it-": “I cannot. I know it’s magic, though. The veil is thin; its voices—spirits speak from it-”
> 
> Gealne: ‘Spooky’
> 
> “Vin—said they grabbed it from mith’bre’alas,”: “Yes—said they grabbed it from a cave nearby,”
> 
> “Mala? Salhasine’na, ryir sul’ema’ter Keeper Marethari!”: “Now? You’re insane, we must give the stone to Keeper Marethari!”
> 
> “Silan'shem’len ea nual’var uren,”: Literally “I think the humans are pulling our ears,”, figuratively he’s saying the humans are lying or over-exaggerating to mess with them.
> 
> Dya/Dyir: ‘Shall’ then conjugated with the pronoun ‘we.’ When phrased as a question, it becomes “Shall we?”
> 
> Uth’sule’din: ‘Forever unto death’


	3. The Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out, guys, it's pretty hard to write angst when you got fucking anime openings stuck in your head. Ah, yes, let me write about despair and death as I'm forced to remember how Haikyuu and MHA cured my depression. This wont change the tone of my writing at all.
> 
> I flunked out of my college course cause of ADHD and a teacher who refused to answer any of my questions until the last week of the course (the worst one being questions about the final project two days before it was due), but at least I have my fanfic (: this will never steal $600 from me to give me the right to prove I read a book, no sir.
> 
> Please enjoy guys, and don't forget to leave a like or a kudos if you survived this far. Thank you for holding fast through these origin chapters.

* * *

*Another note is scrawled above the chapter page; the author seems to never feel satisfied with their work:

—Common: take, verb; past participle: taken.

  1. remove (someone or something) from a particular place.
    1. The two hunters were taken from their clan—too early, some debate, but destiny does not make mistakes.
  2. (of a plant or seed) take root or begin to grow; germinate.
    1. Like the seeds of bluebells taking root in fall to face the cold months of winter that inevitably make them strong enough to bloom in spring, Myriani, too, takes root.



Elvhen: Vera, verb; present participle; veral.

  1. To take, to remove, to deprive usually without permission or against the original owner’s will.—



The words feel almost too pretentious to take seriously. No one would be judged for putting the book down after reading this.*

* * *

_—“Dyir?”_

“ _Uth’sule’din,_ ”

* * *

“I can’t—I can’t look away!” Tamlen failed to yank his hand back from the mirror, and to everyone's horror, it started to melt into the surface, “My hand— _re veral’ara da’lav_ —” another tug, “— **Inaean**!”

With the speed of a hawk, his heart swooped forward to yank him back by his arm and away from the cursed mirror. 

“Myriani, help!” She shouted as her effort achieved nothing. Tamlen was inevitably sinking into the mirror, the blank inked surface making way for him. The First had froze on the spot, too many solutions ran through her mind with fear holding back her initiative to pick one; _Trap him with roots? No, it’ll cause more pain if that doesn’t stop him. Break the mir—_ “ **Myriani**!” The scream was desperate, Tamlen’s face was inches from the liquid glass and an invisible force dragged his feet forward. His yell, like an injured animal caught in a trap, harrowed the two.

Myriani stepped forward as she shot her arm out, tensing her hand to commanded roots from the ground. They were supposed to tunnel forward and erupt at the mirror, but a shockwave knocked both her and Inaean back before she could complete the cast—the roots stopped just short of the cursed antique. Myriani’s head and back slammed against the rocky cave wall and she slid to the ground, dazed. Inaean, graceful as ever, tumbled with the shockwave's force and rolled onto her feet, immediately starting a sprint back towards Tamlen; his screams had fallen silent.

“ **Tamlen**!” The desperation had not left the lithe hunter, but desperation is rarely enough to change circumstance. Her hand was outstretched as she reached for Tamlen’s fingertips—all that was left of him on their side of the mirror. 

They grazed. 

And Tamlen was gone. 

A pregnant silence fell over the cavern.

Everything had happened too fast for Myriani to fully process, her head still reeling from the impact. Just a few minutes ago, they had entered this strange finale to the ruins. It was just a large mirror, which **sure** that’s **weird** , but what isn’t when exploring old ruins? They had joked and pushed each other around, claimed whoever touched the weird thing last was a coward. Myriani didn’t mind the words enough to act, but Tamlen took the dare in stride and then...then—

“Inaean...Inaean, _elvy vira_. _Ryir’dirtha’_ Keeper _o’_...about **this**. _El’amathe_ ,” Myriani’s voice shook in fear and her words were slurred and slow to form, but she had to say something. Keeper Marethari would know how to help Tamlen. 

_Why did we not go to her in the first place?_

_Where did Tamlen_ **_go_** _?_

Inaean was a statue as she stared into the now hardened surface of the mirror—directly where Tamlen’s fingertips were. 

“ _Asa’ma’lin_ , _sathan,_ ” Myriani begged, reaching out to her twin, “sister, please!”

The hunter let out a frustrated yell and pounded the glass surface. Myriani flinched and retracted her hand. 

“No! I am not going back without him,” Inaean’s voice was raw as tears streamed down her face, resorting to full common in her stressed state, “How can we leave? Tamlen is **gone** because of uS—” Myriani started to share her sisters tears as she processed the words. Her shock was wearing off and reality was crashing down fast—

Tamlen was taken—

She stood there and let it happen—

“—Because of...because of you, Myriani! How could you just **stand** there?!” her sister’s grief had transformed to blame as Inaean whipped around to face her with labored breaths.

Myriani choked out a sob as she brought a hand to her mouth. There was no defense; her sister was right. 

A useless apology was caught in her throat and all that surfaced were more cries. Inaean turned back towards the mirror to continue bashing at it.

How were they going to get Tamlen back? Myriani’s best friend, Inaean’s heart, one of the clan’s bravest warriors; he was needed. 

The two elves refused the answer to their question; the absolute truth.

Tamlen was gone.

With no time to process their emotions, a strange howl bounced off of the cave walls around them. Instinctively, the duo of the trio went silent immediately, their wide and glossy eyes turned towards the cavern entrance. Seconds passed, and the noise repeated. That time it sounded like a growl. More followed. 

_Was it a trap?_

“Hide,” Inaean whispered as she quietly pulled out her daggers.

“ _Ahn_?” 

“ **Hide** ,” she hissed as she repeated herself, her eyes daggered as she commanded her sister. Inaean maneuvered to be behind the large mirror and Myriani shapeshifted into a mouse without a second thought this time, skittering under some rocks conveniently spaced near the wall so she could be hidden, but still have sight of the entryway. The growling was getting louder. Even in her rodent form, the mage started to feel woozy and feverish as the sound of stomping pounded in her head. Was she crashing from the stress? 

She had little time to consider her physical state before the monsters showed themselves. Their smell hit the room a few seconds later, and she would have retched if she was capable in her current form. The horrid creatures flooded into the room, seven total. They wore armor that Myriani wasn’t close enough to notice details of, but some points looked sharp; even their defense was offensive. 

They grunted nonstop, sniffing; hunting.

Hunting the twins, and Inaean knew this. 

Inaean knew this the moment one of the beasts got too close to her hiding spot; she knew this when she pounced, as if the predator and prey roles were reversed; she knew this as her battle cry echoed across the room, a screech of desperation and despair and rage and vengeance. The haze in Myriani’s mind thickened as she watched the beasts rush her sister.

* * *

I would be a fool to write Inaean’s death as if it was a fictional character in one of my other stories. I could write how the last two darkspawn left standing toyed with the elf as exhaustion and darkspawn taint settled into the hunter, causing her to be easy prey; how Myriani watched as they tossed her like a stone until one of them held out their sword as the other pushed her forward to cut the game short; how the brave elf coughed up blood as her last breath and how the darkspawn sounded as if they were laughing—

Inaean Mahariel deserves to be remembered for how she bravely stood her own against unknown, nightmarish creatures with the odds stacked against her after losing her loved one, refusing to let another one be taken if she could help it; how she fought off seven darkspawn at once on her own, her passion and love and rage driving her actions; how even in her last breath, she begged her sister to get to safety. She wanted someone to live from their stupid adventure. 

Her last thoughts were of Tamlen and Myriani’s laughs from the night before, their smiles reaching their ears as they sat around the makeshift fire and teased Paivel as they ad libbed his stories. Her world had gone black with the fire fading to embers, the cold settling in.

* * *

She heard her sister’s garbled request as blood bubbled from her lips. Through her daze, her horror, she shapeshifted into a hare. Fully embracing the aspect of prey, she did not think. She feld. 

Myriani fled until the grunting behind her fell silent—until everything became quiet. She felt hot; sweltering. A hand reached to wipe the sweat from her forehead. When had she shifted back? Bile rose up her throat and she vomited, too weak to wipe at her face this time. She tried to recall where she was or how far she was from the entrance, but she was unable to comprehend the shape of the room around her; prey for the giant spiders they had slain earlier wrapped in webs that looked suspiciously like bodies, a broken crate. Was that the one Tamlen found elfroot in earlier? ‘Ha! The Keeper’s _tuast_ ’elfroot supply! She’ll be set for winter with this, I’m sure of it,’ he had said, pulling out a decayed, rotten, and clearly not ‘ _tuast_ ’ elfroot bundle. 

Her breathing became shallow and she felt like she was drowning with thoughts she couldn’t acknowledge. As she put her hand on the closest wall for support, she tried to stumble another step forward but her vision went black around the edges. She felt like she was falling.

…………………

Myriani awoke with a start, gasping for air. How could she have been so stupid to fall asleep, and for how long? She needed help!

_Help? Why did I need?_

“Myriani, _da’lan_ , _serannas_ ’ Mythal _then’ane_!” 

It was dull, like she was underwater, but the mage heard a voice nearby that sounded relieved. As if she hadn’t had water in days, her vision faded black when she shot up from her resting position; it felt softer than the cave floor. 

_Cave floor?_

“ _Sathan_ , _ane elvyr’fra’mar’lan_ , _da’lan_ . _Amahn_ —” a cup was pushed into Myriani’s hand as her color started to fade back into her vision. She was suddenly very aware of how thirsty she was, and graciously chugged at the drink in her hand: elfroot tea. The earthy beverage slipped past her lips and down her chin in her eagerness and she gasped for breath after draining the cup.

It was a struggle for her to focus; her eyes were open yet she had trouble processing what she saw. The second voice that she heard belonged to Keeper Marethari, that she knew, and after a bit of thought, was able to place the first as Ashalle, her and Inaean’s guardian.

_Where is Inaean?_

“ _Ar’an_ _nuvenem_ ’ _ma_ _unela dirtha’em’an_ , Myriani,” her Keeper responded gently to a question Myriani didn’t realize she had asked. How would she know where her sister was? Marethari brought a hand to rest on the younger mage’s shoulder in comfort. The First’s head was still reeling and it wasn’t going away as she expected; her feverish and nauseous symptoms had snuck back up on her and she went to lay back down with a groan.

“ _Elvyr_ , _elvyr,_ _da’lan_ , _ane_ ’sick. How _unela_ ’ _ane_ so **reckless**? Running into ruins by _mar’lan_ , bah! I raised’ _ma_ better’ _o_ ’this,” Ashalle’s passion led to a mixed language scolding as she helped Myriani get comfortable, her words angry but her tone concerned.

_I wasn’t alone..._

“Tamlen…” Myriani coughed out as she tried to recall **something** from the fog that was her memories. The clan started to settle; she asked to search chaga mushrooms; her sister arriving with Tamlen and bragging about scaring off _shem’len_ , having something they took from them—“... _Is’an venem_ ’ _ter_!”

“Hush, _ashalan_ , _dasa’mar telsilathe_. _Dirtha_ _melahn shem’len_ _ela’hartha_ ,” Ashalle brushed Myriani’s straw-like hair back from her forehead while simultaneously checking the young elf’s temperature—she tsk’d and reached for a cold rag.

“ _Shem’len_?”

“A Grey Warden; Duncan. See that _ma_ address’ _ish_ as such, and speak common, he will be back soon,” the Keeper corrected, placing the rag handed to her on the young one’s forehead, “ _Is_ found _ma_ out cold in those ruins. Carried’ _ma_ back to _em’an_ two days ago.”

“Two days!?” Myriani exclaimed with immediate regret, grabbing her own head in pain with a groan. 

“ _Felasil_ —Yes, two days. Almost three, now that _ame silal’o’ra_...”

“Inaean _i_ Tamlen...?” Her repeated question was implied, she had forgotten that it was already asked. 

A silence fell over the two older elves as they shared a look Myriani didn’t see. Reconsidering her lack of memory had changed the situation—and not for the better—the elder changed her approach: “We are still looking,” Keeper Marethari answered, glancing towards the tent's entrance—It had been erected for privacy and seclusion. Normally the sick are welcome to breath the fresh air at a safe distance away from the clan, and the Grey Warden had informed them that the illness the young elf contracted wasn’t contagious, but the Keeper didn’t want the clan to gawk, “Duncan offered to search the ruins he found you in.”

Myriani couldn’t keep track of what little information was sticking in her head. She remembered the tablet Inaean and Tamlen had brought to her, she remembered following them to a cave entrance, some giant spiders, but the rest was foggy. It was a dream she was quickly losing grasp of after awakening. And now the two were missing, and she was the only one that was found. Why? What questions can she ask? They were gone, and any memories that would have helped find them were gone as well.

A crushing feeling of guilt seared itself into her stomach and heart, tears suddenly pouring down the sides of her face as she started to choke on her breaths. Why was she so guilty? 

_What happened?_

Ashalle rushed to comfort the elf who now looked too young for her age, wiping her tears and shushing her cries, “Hush. Hush _da’lan_ , shhh—” There was a shuffling in the room as Myriani tried to muffle her noises, quickly becoming embarrassed from her rush of despair. Soft voices were heard from outside the tent, and the entrance ruffled again. Myriani opened her eyes to see a dark-skinned human now in the tent with her and the two other elves, taking up too much space in the tent not meant for his kind. Instinct was shouting at her to put her guard up, but Mryiani was too exhausted to follow through.

“This is Duncan, the Grey Warden I mentioned,” Keeper Marethari introduced, giving way so the Grey Warden could approach the mage.

“Greetings, Myriani Mahariel. As I’m sure your Keeper has made you aware, I was searching the ruins I found you in for your sister and the warrior you left camp with,” Duncan paused, giving room for Myriani to elaborate if she desired. 

She did not.

“Do you remember anything about the ruins?” He pressed.

“...Large spiders...broken things,” the First uselessly described. She knew he wasn’t asking for that useless information, he was asking for more, but she didn’t have the answers he needed! The fog was encroaching in and she could barely remember the tablet’s markings—“ _Ter_ ! Inaean found a tablet...from _shem’len_ who knew the ruins.” 

“Do you know where this tablet could be?” Duncan pressed further, his voice low and soothing. Guilt still pierced the young elf again when she, again, didn’t have an answer for his question and another wave of nausea crashed over her. She gagged and bent over the bed, Ashalle then quick to put a bowl down.

“Well, no matter, we will keep looking,” Ashalle spoke over the retching as she stood and she clapped her hands in a sign of completion. Her confidence was fake, but little confidence is ever actually honest. “ _Ma_ focus on becoming well, _da’lan_.” 

Sensing the conversation would escalate beyond the need to be there, Ashalle bid the Grey Warden goodbye after kissing Myriani’s hand and made for the exit. The tent was silent after the tent flap settled.

Myriani’s eyes were getting heavy, everything was too much. 

_Too fast_ —

“Warden, you told us that our First is sick. Have you found out more?” Keeper Marethari asked, and Myriani silently thanked her mentor. She was too fuzzy to ask much, let alone remember her current state of self. 

_This bedding is soft…_

Duncan had a look in his eye that could have almost been described as worried as he glanced down at Myriani. He answered the question, nonetheless, “Yes. My trip back to the ruin confirmed my suspicion of your First being infected with the darkspawn taint.” 

Keeper Marethari was silent as she waited for Duncan to continue.

“In a cavern off of the ruins, there was an ancient Tevinter mirror that seemed to have been tainted by the darkspawn. I assume Mahariel came into contact with the mirror since she has no physical wounds that could be blamed for the taint,” Duncan finished his theory, directing his thoughts to the Keeper, “There was old blood surrounding the mirror, and darkspawn that had been killed. I assumed they had been dead as long as Myriani had been unconscious. Could she have done it?”

Keeper Marethari looked at the young elf laying in bed, her eyes closed and her breathing labored. Myriani had fallen back asleep, or at least was too far from the two elders to hear their conversation. 

“No, my First is not a fighter. She knows few offensive spells, but nothing that would draw blood unless used away from their intended purpose,” the Keeper walked over to her charge and rested a cold hand on an even colder one, squeezing it gently, “She is a healer. Perhaps pressing her further into a path of defense would have prevented this...” Keeper Marethari trailed off and Duncan figured it would be best not to comment on her training methods.

“There...were drag marks—in the blood, Keeper Marethari, of a body,” the Grey Warden added softly, “If someone was with your First and it wasn't her who fought off the darkspawn, they most likely defended her until she could escape.” Her breath hitched as she held Myriani’s hand tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“And...and the other?”

“I did not see evidence of a third elf.”

“I see...and what now? How long does Myriani have until...until it is too late?”

“It is hard to say. I would consider it a blessing she has lived until now—” the Keeper let out a prayer under her breath— “I am sure you already know what I am going to suggest, Keeper. Dedicated healers are rare, especially at this young of an age, and I am more than prepared for recruits into the Grey Wardens. We will protect her from the taint that lurks in her blood...or...her end is inevitable. But—I will not force your hand, Keeper.”

“No, I will not let selfishness cloud my thoughts. You are right—I was prepared for this and I have already decided. If she does not wake again by sundown, you are free to take her. I will prepare her things and alert the clan...they will wish to say their goodbyes, conscious or not,” decidedly, the Keeper stood from her First and took a deep breath in, “I hope the gifts will be a reminder that the decision was made out of love, not hate, for her. She is too young to have resentment.”

Marethari had been so worried when the trio’s simple adventure took longer than a few hours. A little fun was understandable, but the sun started to set and dinner was missed, which rarely happened without previous warning from the rascals. When scouts came to alert the Keeper of a human claiming to be a Grey Warden holding an unconscious Myriani, she was relieved—until she saw the young elf’s condition. 

Keeper Marethari saw the grey skin and the profuse sweating when Duncan brought Myriani Mahariel back to her _ara’vel_. Dalish elves may be secluded, but the Keeper had been around long enough to recognize the signs of the taint, but she wanted full confirmation. 

The two days were torture; the waiting seemed endless and to have her wake with little to no information about the two other missing clan members, Keeper Marethari’s hopes were completely shattered.

She bowed her head to Duncan and motioned for him to lead the way out of the tent, following close behind. Marethari did not look forward to informing the clan about the fate of the trio, but such is the job of leading her elves. She met eyes with Ashalle who was suspiciously close to the tent, nothing of importance in her hands. The motherly elf quickly looked away, but the Keeper didn’t miss the look of grief in the elf’s brown eyes and Ashalle quickly dipped into the tent after Marethari walked away.

The elder looked towards the afternoon sun, harsh and unforgiving—just as destiny was today. Three of her children were taken from her too soon and Marethari could only pray to Mythal that this was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it! As I said, leave a kudos or a comment if you want. I will applaud you for making it this far, also I love you.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> “My hand—re veral’ara’da’lav!—” : “My hand—it’s taking my hand!—”
> 
> “Inaean...Inaean, elvy vira. Ryir’dirtha’Keeper o’...about this. El’amathe,” : “Inaean...Inaean, we should go. We need to tell the Keeper about...about this. She can help,”
> 
> “Asa’ma’lin, sathan,” : “Sister, please,”
> 
> Ahn : What
> 
> Tuast : new, recent, fresh
> 
> “Myriani, da’lan, serannas’Mythal then’ane!” : “Myriani, child, thank Mythal you’re awake!”
> 
> “Sathan, ane elvyr’fra’mar’lan, da’lan. Amahn—” : “Please, be gentle on yourself, child. Here—”
> 
> “Ar’an nuvenem’ma unela dirtha’em’an, Myriani,” : “We hoped you could you could tell us, Myriani,”
> 
> “Elvyr, elvyr, da’lan, ane’sick.” : “Easy, easy, child, you are sick.”
> 
> “Hush, ashalan, dasa mar’telsilathe. Dirtha melahn shem’len ela’hartha,” : “Hush, daughter, patience. Speak when the human can hear,”. 
> 
> ‘Dasa’mar telsil’ was incredibly fun to come up with; the literal translation is ‘restrain your worry,’ ‘mar’ is the possessive noun for ‘telsilathe’, so ‘dasa’ acts upon this, and ‘worry’ is made into the noun being owned by adding the suffix ‘-the’, making it the action of worry. Thus, patience is born. Fun.
> 
> “Felasil—Yes, two days. Almost three, now that ame silal’o’ra...” : “Dummy—Yes, two days. Almost three, now that I am thinking about it…”


End file.
